


So Lately, I'm Wondering Who Will Be There To Take My Place?

by JuniorWoofles



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond has to sleep with people for work purposes and feels guilty, Established Relationship, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Q Has a Cat, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniorWoofles/pseuds/JuniorWoofles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing was, he used to love this, before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Lately, I'm Wondering Who Will Be There To Take My Place?

**Author's Note:**

> Rated for references to sexual acts.
> 
> Title taken from 'Wherever You Will Go' by The Calling

The thing was, before he used to love this. Not necessarily the partner or the situation but the thrill, the attention and the moment, the intimacy that occurred when it was just him and his partner wrapped up the moment.

Now, now though, now there was mixed feelings.

He knew he had to do this. Knew he sometimes had to do it for the sake of the mission, for the success of the job he was pulling. He knew that sometimes he had to do it to garner trust, to find out secrets, to exploit weaknesses. He knew that sometimes he was just a means to an end, that sometimes he was being used as much as he used others. He knew that sometimes it was unavoidable.

He knew he had a reputation about him. The way they saw him with the vodka, the suits, the womanising ways. He knew there was a particular picture that others painted of him and when he stepped out on a mission he stepped into the frame like he was born to fit it. It was a glove, leather and well-fitted, well-worn with the creases and impurities that come from years of wear and tear. He was an object, something that could be worn and removed when necessary and he knew who he could let wear him and who he could wear. He was a master. He knew his craft and there was a time when he loved it.

Now, he hated it. Not necessarily the release of tension or the success of a job well done but the thought of what it meant. Before it was easy, he could come and he could go with who he pleased when it suited him. Now he hated the stab of guilt that swelled in his stomach and lingered with each kiss that some nameless stranger pressed to his skin.

He used to make it last, he used to know how long each case needed, make it last until breaking point and then push them off the cliff together. Now he wants out of there. He wants to go home to the flat that smells of tea and cats and the kisses that he invites and welcomes. He wants to make it last, doesn’t want his partner to figure out the dirty secret his job drags with him, doesn’t want to mess up the mission by ruining what could be a crucial key to the success, but he doesn’t want to be there. He wants to get out of there as soon as possible.

He used to concentrate. He used to watch their movements, study their noises and test himself to see if he could illicit the same response again. He used to linger, let them feel like they were special, like they mattered, before he left them all in the dust; their images all blurring into one nameless history of a job. Until they all become the history of a brand that he carries around.

His job is a brand. It burns behind his retinas every time he sees another life go to waste, another life fall to the wayside. It burns into his skin every time he pulls the trigger and watches the life drain from another. It burns into his nose every time he smells smoke and watches another fire burn down another life, another future. It burns into his mouth when he tastes an expensive French perfume instead of the comforting taste of tea.

He carries the brand with him as he follows another into a cold bed, a lonely shower, an empty kitchen. He uses the brand to mask his features so he doesn’t turn away in disgust at what his job is making him do.

He’s not disgusted by his actions. He knows why he’s doing what he’s doing and he knows what purpose it serves. He still loves the thrill of it, when he forgets himself, when he momentarily loses himself in the moment, and that’s when he is disgusted with himself. When he forgets what he’s got waiting for him, who he’s got waiting for him when he’s ready to really strip himself of the suit and brand and become a real person who is more than just a job title. He’s disgusted with himself when he starts to enjoy himself, when it’s him and the stranger and its happy and safe for a minute and he can pretend it was before again when he wouldn’t be filled with guilt afterwards.

He tries to console himself. He tries to pretend it’s a skinner frame below him, a smaller, sturdier body that’s flatter and isn’t filled out with soft curves. He tries to pretend that instead of breathy moans he’s getting harassed by a barrage of witty comebacks and profanities. He tried to pretend that the hair he tangles his fingers in isn’t long and flowing and perfectly tailored but a messy mop that is just about controlled on the best days. He tries to pretend that the neck he’s kissing is rough with stubble from someone who hasn’t shaved in four days because they’ve been too caught up in work. He tries to pretend that the head he’s holding has softer hair that is a joy to pet and always elicits the most adorable kitten like noises. He tries to pretend that when his hands wander they’re going over a firmer stomach with more defined ribs and edges and softer thighs. He tries to pretend that instead of female warmth beneath his fingers there was a heavy length. He tries to pretend that he’s in bed with cold toes against his leg while he falls asleep, warm and sated. He tries to pretend that he’s home safe with another completed mission as a notch under his belt instead of another notch on a bed post that’s already been marked past recognition.

He tries to kid himself he doesn’t miss the feeling of curvy women with long legs wrapped around him. He tries to kid himself that he isn’t enjoying this when he sinks into the warmth of a new, beautiful stranger with long hair flowing past her heaving breasts. He tries to kid himself that he really, truly hates this, and doesn’t still love the thrill in a way that he knows is slightly perverted. He tries to kid himself that he doesn’t want to go back to this life because it’s comforting and routine and what he was used to before. He tries to throw himself into his work as a way to cover up the fear that curls around his heart whenever he has to leave on another mission.

He pretends he isn’t scared. He has a mask, a face, a suit he puts on that protects him and covers all his emotions. They can’t see past the brand, because they don’t want to and because he doesn’t let them. He only lets a few people see past the name and see the person and those are the people who actually want to get to know the person behind the façade. The people who want to look after and love the broken shell of a man holding himself together under the expensive suits and gadgets.

Some days when he’s away he can’t hold himself together as well as he would like. Those are the days when the specially made guns and gadgets are hidden on the inside pocket of his jacket, the one right over his chest. He pretends he can feel the delicate precision with which they are made and they love and care poured into each special new experiment. He pretends that by having them over his chest he can carry a link to back home with him wherever he goes. That he’s somehow still close to him despite the thousands of miles and lies that cover the ground between them.

Those are the days he knows he’s lying to himself. Those are the days he knows that he’s fallen too deep and too far. Those are the days that he knows no matter how far it goes he can never come back to the same person in the same old suit that he was before because he’s changed now. His heart no longer plays along with the games he used to do. His heart is softer now, older and sleepier and beaten down. Those are the days he knows that he isn’t carrying a specially made cigarette lighter bomb in his breast pocket because it’s handy but because he wishes he was home in bed being woken up to the sound of fingers flying over keys and a kitten or three lounging about on his chest. Those are the days that he knows that no woman would ever satisfy him in a way that they used to before. Those are the days when he knows no matter how many women try to come at him,  he’s starting to dodge their advances, trying to duck out to his quiet hotel room where he can try to imagine he’s at home, dutifully making some old British favourite like Shepard’s pie to take along to work so they can eat together. Those are the days when he knows he wants to retire while he still can, find some boring desk job somewhere so he can live long enough to see their kittens grow up and become fat and lazy. Those are the days when he knows he has fallen so far.

He used to love this, his job and all of the terms and conditions that came with it. All of the people he met, those he loved and left and those he left with bullet wounds seeping blood on to polished floors. He used to love the anonymity of hiding behind a title, a name that everyone knew. Now he wants to be home, be home with the people who know the man who shares the same name as the job. He wants to be home with their spacious apartment that still feels cramped, with tea cups and files and wires all over the place and kittens running in between piles of paperwork and abandoned plans for voice-activated guns. He wants to be home where he can be safe and loved and happy, home with his Quartermaster.


End file.
